


Dirty Realities of Cohabitation

by acaelousqueadcentrum



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, meme prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:58:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaelousqueadcentrum/pseuds/acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone asked for Clexa for the recent dirty realities of cohabitation domestic meme, and the first one I tried to answer turned into a minific. So I’m going to break them up and do a minific inspired by each question. You could read these as existing within the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3847735/chapters/8589307">(Don’t Ever Want to Tame) This Wild Heart</a> series or as independent ficlets. Up to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slow on Sunday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What habits does each have that the other hates?

Lexa’s an early riser. Always has been. When she was a child she’d rise with the sun and leave the house soon after, not returning until it was almost dark. Whether she was running round the local parks, hiding in the library, or just walking the streets of the town she grew up in, from sunrise to sunset she was awake and away from the darkness of her home.

And over the years, her early-bird-gets-the-worm nature has served her well. In college, in the academy, on the force. She was always the first one to arrive for the 8:00 am classes, the first on the track for cadet PT, and first in uniform and in the ready-room for assignments.

Even when she doesn’t have a reason, a purpose, to be up so early in the morning, she is. She likes the quiet, the solitude. Likes to ramble about as the city yawns and stretches and rolls over for another few minutes of precious sleep.

But Clarke is not a morning person. Clarke’s not even an afternoon person, not without a vat of coffee and a long, hot shower. By the time Clarke stumbles out of their bed on Sunday mornings, Lexa’s usually gone for a run, picked up the paper, stopped for coffee and bagels, showered, and is sitting out on the balcony where they’ve got a little bistro table and two chairs amid a bevy of overgrown plants, working on the crossword puzzle or reading through the business section. (That she’s a bit of a Market-nerd had come as a total, and adorable, surprise to Clarke.)

Of course Lexa makes some quip about late-sleepers as she peers over her cup of coffee with a grin, and Clarke’s growl is mostly in jest. But it’s enough to have Lexa take pity on her and hand over her cup before heading back into the kitchen to pour another. Those are the good Sundays.

The bad Sundays are the ones when Lexa’s been called out to a scene before the sun even rises. It doesn’t bother her, of course, beyond the fact that she truly does enjoy waking slowly, her nose buried in Clarke’s hair or feeling the blonde’s warm skin against her naked back. But it irks Clarke, always, to wake up to an empty apartment, coffee on the counter long since gone cold. And she knows that there’s nothing to be done, but she wishes she could be an early-riser too. Wake as easily and quickly as Lexa does, just to spend a little quiet time together before duty calls. Those Sundays when she wakes and finds the note from Lexa, that the officer’s been called out and doesn’t know when she’ll be back, they’re pretty terrible and lonely. And if Clarke can muster up the energy to get over her broken expectations of a lazy Sunday with her love, maybe she’ll visit her mother, or go grocery shopping, or even make it in to the studio to get some work done. But even if she does, she’ll end up annoyed with something her mother says, or she’ll forget the two important items that she really went to the store for, or she’ll sit for hours in front of a blank canvas with no inspiration until she finally gives up and decides to go home. Sundays without Lexa are the worst.

But then there are the best Sundays. The ones where Lexa lingers longer on her run, or Clarke wakes a little bit earlier. The Sundays where somehow Lexa is just toeing off her running shoes in the hallway when the blonde steps out of the bedroom, their quilt wrapped tight around her shoulders like a cape, a shawl. On those Sundays, Clarke will sleepily kiss a sweaty Lexa, who will laugh and push the blanket off those strong shoulders, and pull them both toward the bathroom.

Those Sundays Clarke truly, fully, wakes up as she climaxes under the hot, pounding water of their shower, Lexa kneeling before her with a wide, dangerous grin. And then she returns the favor, pressing Lex against the wet, tiled wall, and pumps her fingers in and out of the taller woman, until the grin is gone and the only sound beyond the water and her own breath are Lexa’s throaty gasps of her name.

Those are the best Sundays, the ones where the hours blend together as they explore each other’s bodies again and again. Their phones silenced, some cd or another playing softly in the background. As they love and dream and wake to love again.

Those Sundays it doesn’t matter that Clarke will never be a morning person. Or that Lexa can rarely stay up past eleven unless she’s on the night shift.

Those Sundays are just theirs, and everything that matters the rest of the time–their jobs, their family and their friends, the expectations each has for the mundane and the everyday–just fades away. Because all that matters is this. Them. Together.

And if some mornings when Lexa wakes she watches while Clarke sleeps, and offers thanks to gods she’s never believed in…

And if some evenings after Lexa’s gone to sleep Clarke stands at the foot of their bed and watches the even, steady rise and fall of her strong, beautiful, perfect lover’s breath in the darkness…

Well, no one has to know.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Sunday Morning" by Maroon 5.


	2. Undeserved Sweetness and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What arbitrary rules do they enforce on each other?

“It’s not arbitrary,” Clarke protested loudly, “it’s tradition. Griffins celebrate don’t celebrate birthdays, we celebrate birth- _weeks_. It’s been a family rule for generations, handed down to my dad from his dad from his dad–” **  
**

Lexa rolled her eyes and leaned forward from where she was sitting on the other side of the table. “Don’t even give me that,” she cut her girlfriend off, “you’ve told me this story before. It started when you were four and your dad had to miss your birthday for a business trip. And you, with your four-year-old logic, decided that you should get to be the birthday princess for the whole week in exchange. Your parents just decided to roll with it because it made you happy.”

“Tradition,” she said derisively, though her eyes were amused and there was just the slightest hint of a smile in the corner of her mouth. Clarke was adorable, after all. “My family doesn’t celebrate birthdays at all. That’s my tradition.”

The blonde’s face fell, and there was a part of Lexa that felt bad for taking such a strong stance on the subject. It’s not that she was opposed to doing big, over-the-top things for birthdays and other events. She just preferred not to be the recipient.

And besides, she had been serious about her family’s tradition. Her birthday didn’t mean anything to her, it never had.

Or maybe it did once, a long, long time ago. But time and experience had taught Lexa that it wasn’t anything worth getting excited about. She hadn’t gotten so much as a “Happy Birthday” from her parents in years. No cards or presents, no cake.

But, it was becoming clear, they meant something to Clarke. They meant a lot to her, it seemed.

And, suddenly, as Lexa watched Clarke sadly pick up her coffee mug and walk it over to the sink, it hit her. What this was really about.

It was about her birthday, yes. About Clarke wanting to celebrate and make a good birthday memory for the police officer, one to treasure against all the years of disappointments that Lexa had trained herself not to mind.

But in a way, it was about Clarke and her father as well. The first and only man her girlfriend had ever loved, who’d been taken from the world too soon, and in circumstances far more tragic than Clarke should ever have had to experience.  Lexa remembered the day Clarke found out about her birthday, how startled she’d been to discover that Lexa shared the date with her own late father. How utterly random. How terribly fated.

Lexa hadn’t known what to do at the time, how to ease the conflict she saw in the blonde’s watery blue eyes. But she’d trusted her instincts, and her instincts had served her well.

She gathered Clarke up into her arms, surprised as always at how a woman with such a towering presence could fit so well in her embrace, could be so, so small. And then they’d sat together, Lexa resting against headboard of her bed while her girlfriend sniffled in her arms.

When the artist had tried to apologize for making a scene, for coloring the thought of Lexa’s birthday with her own grief, the brunette had put a finger to those soft, sweet lips, refusing to hear anything of it.

They never spoke of it again. They never really spoke of Lexa’s birthday again, actually, until the moment Clarke brought it up, teasing out the police officer’s thoughts about what she wanted to do to celebrate, bringing up the Griffin Family Tradition for the first time.

“Hey,” Lexa said as the pieces clicked into place, and rose to stand behind Clarke at the sink, close but not letting herself touch the other woman, “I’m sorry. I am. I know it means a lot to you. It’s just that I’ve never had a full-Griffin birthday week, you know? I’m afraid it might be a little overwhelming, honestly.”

And she was.

Clarke turned and brought her arms up to encircle Lexa’s waist, resting her head against the taller woman’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry too. I know you’re not used to being anyone’s center, Lex. And it makes me sad, because you deserve to be. You’ve always deserved it. Always, and if I could make up for all those birthdays and Christmases that no one made you feel important to them, I would. But you’re my center, and so maybe I was going a little overboard.”

The blonde looked up into Lexa’s green eyes and sighed. “It’s your birthday, we’ll do whatever you want to do. Okay?”

Lexa was silent for a moment as her mind ran in circles around Clarke’s words.

They hadn’t said “I love you,” yet.

Not because they didn’t feel it.

Not because it wasn’t there.

But because they weren’t ready. Because they’d both been so determined not to let themselves fall.

And, yet, here Clarke was, standing before her, holding her close. Here Clarke was, calling Lexa her center.

It meant something.

It meant a lot.

“What I want for my birthday,” Lexa said slowly, looking down at her girlfriend’s beautiful face, “is to try the Griffin Tradition. But, I was thinking. Maybe we could make it a joint thing, you know?  Celebrate my birthday, but also your dad’s?”

Clarke just looked up at her for a moment, blue boreing into green, before stretching up on her toes to pull Lexa into a fierce, bruising kiss.

“Okay?” Lexa asked when they parted.

Clarke answered with another kiss, and a whispered “Okay” against Lexa’s smiling lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Happy Birthday" by Innocence Mission.


	3. Stepping Over Endless Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What slight from years ago do they bring up against each other in fights when it starts getting ugly?

Clarke ran over Lexa with her bike once. It was early in their relationship and she truly, honestly, had not seen the taller woman as Lexa walked up the drive toward her old apartment.

The officer wasn’t even supposed to be there, was always Clarke’s defense. As far as the blonde had known, Lexa was stuck in a dirty old van that smelled like BO and rotting noodles, surveilling some warehouse near the docks. The text, which she’d saved and referenced for months whenever her girlfriend tried to bring it up, said not to expect her before morning.

“Before morning, Lexa,” Clarke was fond of pointing out, “does not mean four in the afternoon with flowers and a picnic basket.”

But of course, Lexa always wins the argument when she brings that incident up. The scar above her eyebrow and the fact that she’d been trying to surprise Clarke with a romantic dinner at the park for their six-month anniversary always cons everyone over to her side, to the blonde’s continual dismay.

Still, it’s not like Clarke doesn’t have her own bone to pick, her own story to throw in Lexa’s face when she can’t win their current argument fairly. 

It all started with Raven, as most of her more scandalous memories do. There was a birthday and a strip-joint, some guy who tried one too many times to pick her up and her dwindling patience for his inability to understand her repeated rejection to his advances.  

And maybe it wasn’t Clarke’s fault–the guy had put his hands on her first, after all–but when the police were called in and Lexa fucking showed up? With her partner and the rookie they were training that month?

“Of course you had no choice but to let the rookie arrest me,” Clarke says dramatically, rolling her eyes as far up as they’d go. “Of course you had to let the rookie process me, and print me, and fucking book me for drunk and disorderly conduct.”

Lexa usually just rolls her eyes right back at her indignant girlfriend, absolutely unrepentant. “It was a learning experience,” she always says, and sometimes with a wink to boot, “I mean, what kind of example would it have set if I let my girlfriend off the hook in front of the new kid? And besides, the charge was never filed, it was just practice for the rook.”

“He put me in the drunk tank, Lex,” Clarke glares, “and left me there until the two of you got off shift six hours later. Do you remember how many showers I had to take to get the smell off of me?”

Lexa might not remember the number, and she knows Clarke would probably exaggerate anyway, but she does remember slipping into the steamy bathroom and joining her girlfriend for the last few.

“Technically,” she reminds her girlfriend with a raised eyebrow, “those last ones weren’t even showers. I mean, there wasn’t a lot of washing going on, if you recall …”

This argument, at least, usually ends in a reenactment.


End file.
